“Making an offering,” said the crow. “Three circles broken can be mended with three gifts. The thrush’s song. The trout’s silence. The crow’s memory.”

“What are you doing?” gurgled Crvendac.

Vrana watched. She had seen droughts before. She knew what came next: the thinning of borders. The breaking of rules.

Pastrmka, below, heard every word. Water carries sound like a guilty secret. She said nothing, but she turned her spotted flank toward the deep and waited. The next dawn, Crvendac did it.